


Jack Sock's Hot Dog Cannon vs Adulthood

by CodeGreen



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Espionage, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Humor, M/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CodeGreen/pseuds/CodeGreen
Summary: Jack is recruited by an international spy ring just as the rest of his life derails. Plus, he just found out that pesto is made out of pine nuts!There is a slight chance Jack-Jack has ADD.





	Jack Sock's Hot Dog Cannon vs Adulthood

**Author's Note:**

> How is there ZERO Bryan-Sock goodness on here? Let's fix it!

"What is this, Jarlsberg?" Jack balanced two slices of cheese on one cracker.

None of the guys looked away from the TV. John's gigantic thumbs flailed as he tried to save his character from being blasted off the screen by Stevie, who had gotten weirdly good at Super Smash Bros recently. His long legs were folded under him like a Jacob's ladder; John, Stevie, and Frances perched on one hotel bed while Jack, a cheese plate, and a typically silent Sam Querrey took up the other. The other four mashed buttons while Jack occupied himself.

"Gruyere." John leaned back after his Pikachu exploded.

"Well then fucking bury me in Gruyere," Jack motioned for John to throw the controller. "But if I die, DO NOT Weekend at Bernie's me, you guys. You hear me? I don't need to become some marionette that gets hit in the dick, like, fifteen times before I'm buried."

"Sure, Jack," John stretched out as best he could without kicking the other men off the bed. Jack's wild jumps in conversation didn't phase the American squad. Nearly a decade into their careers, John accepted that his best friend's stream of conscious thoughts flowed a little too fast. Cheese and crackers and old movies about molesting the deceased were all meant to be part of the same thought with Jack.

It kept the monotony of their lives from ever settling in. Guys cycled in and out - Christina McHale was in just when Mardy Fish checked out - but Jack's whirring energy is what really kept things fresh. Forgettable hotel rooms in Perth, beige gyms in Cincinnati - all just backdrop.

John clapped his hands, Jack instinctively threw him a slice of cheese. He frisbee-tossed another at Sam, giggling at the loud thwap of Gruyere sticking to a cheek. Sam shook violently and tried to keep his focus on the video game while Stevie and Frances pummeled him.

"Alright," Sam spoke for the first time, possibly ever. "I'm out. John, good luck tonight." He wandered to the door, grabbed at his neck. His fingers peeled away a spec of cheese Jack had quietly stuck to him. "Thanks, guys." He flicked it back towards the bed on his way out.

Good luck tonight? Jack was positive none of them had an evening match, he had calendars that warned him about things like that. His matches in red, John's matches in blue, Mike's matches in a mint green. There was an exhibition at Madison Square Garden in a few days. But not tonight.

"Hey," Jack's fingers scrambled to pull at a loose string in the comforter. "You know how it's called Red Lobster? But is there any other color of lobster?"

Frances fist pumped in victory. Stevie groaned and let his controller slip to the floor.

"I don't know, man. Black. Green. Go to fucking Maine."

Jack huffed a laugh. He stared out the window, wondered what Maine must be like with green crabs patrolling the beach. Had to be wild. He squinted at a cloud, vaguely wondered if people could do exercises to strengthen the muscles around their eyes instead of wearing glasses. That one cloud looked like a really tall sail boat.

Stevie and Frances were nearly out the door before he even realized. Frances clapped him hard on the back once, laughed when Jack threw half a cheese tray across the room in surprise.

"Shit! Warn a guy when you're that close!" Jack picked up stray cheese and cornichons - Pickles? But cornichons are pickles right? - and tossed them into a trashcan as the others headed out, the heavy click of the door echoing behind them.

He leaned back into the mountain of pillows he'd constructed and closed his eyes. The world looked orange through his eyelids, with jagged polygons of light smashing into each other and sinking out of view.

"... I'm 95% sure she'll say yes, but -," John's voice stopped abruptly. "Dude, are you even listening?"

"Huh? No." Jack pulled a pillow over his face. Cringed when he felt the force of another crash against him, John's long arm reaching across the gap between beds and bashing him with a pillow over and over.

"Get up, asshole. I'm doing it. Tonight. I got the ring and everything."

Tonight. No matches. No exhibition tournament. Ring. Tonight.

He bolted upright, pillow-fort collapsing around him. "What?! Are you sure? What if you get, what's it called?" He stared at John and snapped his fingers repeatedly. John rolled his hand over his wrist in mock pantomime.

"What if I get what? Engaged? Huh? Married? That's the whole point. I'm asking Maddy tonight."

"No," Jack searched for the words. "No not that. I mean. What if you get-" it hit him, he pushed both hands against the mattress, "buyer's remorse!"

John was so silent that Jack could hear the video game music behind them, an endless loop of beeps and bloops, like speech from that maid on the Jetsons.

"Buyer's remorse." John ran a hand through his hair. He was pissed. Jack always knew when he was pissed. "With my wife? Buyer's remorse?"

"No, shit," he put both hands up and tried to back pedal. "That's not what I meant. But, like-"

"That's exactly what you meant!" John was too big to spring out of a bed, instead he unfurled like a rickety dragon. 20 feet of legs slowly unspooling before he hit the ground and pushed himself out of bed. Normally this would be funny, one of Jack's favorite things was to watch John try to fold himself into low chairs or into tiny cars, but he chewed his lips to keep from smiling.

John paced.

"Jesus, I know you don't hear half the shit that comes out of your own mouth but holy shit, Jack. I'm not buying her, I'm in love with her."

So he picked the wrong phrase. It happens. The important part was that married John was distinctly not part of what Jack was used to. He desperately searched for another loose string to yank through the comforter. He settled for throwing a tiny piece of cracker at John while he paced the room.

"Jizzner. Come on. You know I love Maddy. And legit I'm happy for you." He sprung out of the bed and hugged his giant friend tight. "This is exciting. My lil guy is growing up so fast."

John clapped him on the back. "One of us had to."

-

Sure, one of them had to. Didn't mean it had to be John. Jack could've beaten him to the punch. Laid down roots with Sloane, or with Vasek Pospisil back when that was a thing. Just because he didn't feel like doing the whole domestic shtick didn't mean he didn't have options. Half of the tour thought he was already involved with Mike Bryan, anyway.

They were doubles partners. Extraordinary doubles partners together. _Were._ They were so successful that momma Bryan called Jack her third son. But they both knew it was temporary. That was the deal. Plus, Mike was barely divorced from his ex-wife and a relationship would've just made things murky for a team that was otherwise crystal clear. Jack brought the power, Mike brought the savvy. Why mess it up?

Jack wasn't upset about it. He didn't even have feelings for Mike. Not that John believed him when he brought it up at some random dinner, but John thinks he knows everything. They were a good pair - at doubles - and they were only that until Mike's brother was ready to play again. It's not like Bob Bryan rehabbed his hip, swooped back in, and stole Jack's entire fucking life or anything.

Jack was cool with it. He made a point to prove by taking every opportunity he could to see Mike. It was harder since they weren't playing together every day but he was determined to prove just how not bitter he was about it. After yet another first round loss in his singles, Jack took the long way back to his locker. Fognini argued with someone about his ice bath. Tennys Sandgren punched at his locker as he forgot his own lock combination for the 10th time this season. Jack turned back around.

Jack wandered until he completely accidentally (but totally casually) ran into him. Mike pulled his head through a loose polo, wet hair popping up like a carnival game when he spotted his former doubles partner. Jack realized he hadn't been to a carnival in years, and suddenly wondered if he'd be any good at that strong man game where you swing a hammer and try to ring a bell. He'd probably be sweet at that now, if he found a good mallet to practice with.

"Jack-Jack!" Mike's entire face made it through his polo, the smooth skin of his stomach disappearing in a flash as the shirt settled. Not that Jack noticed.

"Mikey," they clapped hands, half hugged. Jack ignored the soft smell of mint that lingered from Mike's shower gel.

"Hey, question. What are those games called when you take a hammer and ring a bell?"

The laugh that escaped Mike was familiar, amused and caught off guard but never totally shocked. It was one of Jack's favorites. John's laugh sounded exhausted sometimes. Mike always laughed like Jack had said something no one else had ever thought of before.

"First," Mike dug in his bag and fastened a watch over his wrist. "I'm not wild about the idea of you playing with hammers unsupervised. Second - it's called a High Striker."

Jack pushed him by his shoulders. "You just made that shit up. How would you know that? No one knows that. You fucking carnie."

Mike put a hand over his heart, gasping like he was hurt before breaking into a laugh. He leaned against the locker.

"Man, I love you and you just go around saying shit like that to me. It hurts."

"You don't love me, Mikey. You just love my forehand."

"Ouch! I'm wounded! I have a deep love for you Jack-Jack. I just say it in other ways. Who do you think keeps brushing your hair in your sleep?"

Jack tried not to stare at Mike's broad shoulders against the metal locker. He did a pretty good job. He barely even noticed the way Mike's California-boy looks complimented his nerdiness, the damp hair across his forehead and warm tan on his cheeks betraying his goofy banter. Hardly even noticed the way his singles loss just a few minutes ago suddenly felt like a distant memory.

"You're weird, Mikey." Jack ran a hand through his own hair, recoiled when he remembered he was drenched in sweat. "I gotta go shower. I've got half a Snickers waiting in my hotel room and I'm going to make sweet sweet love to it later."

Mike nodded, pressed his lips together in an attempt to suppress his laugh. "Alright, well I guess I'll just see you once you fall asleep."

"Yeah yeah. In my dreams," Jack headed for his own locker. Their entire interaction was breezy. Friendly. John thought he was an expert on love ever since he got engaged, but Jack patted himself on the back for proving him wrong. He was already excited to prove John wrong again tomorrow.

-

Now that John Isner was a self-appointed expert in matchmaking, he busied himself fixing up friends with dates to his own engagement dinner. Jack pretended to be lost in planning John's party and ignored his attempts to send him out on dates. Though even Jack had to admit that Jo Konta seemed like a solid fit for Sam. She liked to bake, he liked to... be dull. It made sense.

And he really did want to plan John's engagement party. He got back to his hotel and spent approximately 30 seconds devouring the Snickers bar he'd left on his nightstand and started researching restaurants in New York that could fit a party of 22 without attracting any press. He made it to the Yelp homepage. There did seem to be a lot of press in New York. How many people work as professional full-time paparazzi? He did a quick Google search. What was the difference between full-time and freelance when it came to celebrity picture taking? What did freelance even mean, really?

A knock at the door startled him out of his rabbit hole an hour later. He'd made no progress on John's party planning but had learned about contract work, which led him to read about offshoring jobs, which was particularly common for low budget animation. He was ten-minutes into a second episode of Animaniacs on Netflix when someone banged on his door. He snapped his laptop shut.

"Sooock," a familiar voice bellowed from the other side. "Put some pants on and open up."

"Andy?" Jack opened the door. "Dude! What're you doing in New York? Are you a paparazzo now?"

Andy pushed his way in to the room and flopped down on to a desk chair. "I'm going to ignore all of that. I need your help."

One of Jack's first mentors, Andy Roddick used to be the backbone of American tennis. He'd won the most. He'd been the most famous. He'd taken Jack under his wing when he was just a buck-toothed kid with an iffy backhand. He was also the first to retire, disappearing from the pro circuit with his model wife and then reappearing for exhibition matches once in a blue moon. Jack suddenly remembered the exhibition they'd all committed to in the coming week.

"When's the last time you saw Rafa?"

Jack heaved his shoulders. "Umm... a couple weeks? You want a drink or anything?"

"No. Sit." Andy pointed at the bed across from his chair. "Listen to me and _think_ about the answer. When is the last time you saw Rafa?"

"I don't know. A while, I guess. We're not, like, buds, to be honest." He opened the mini-fridge. "Sure you don't want anything. Water? I've got lemonade, iced tea. I guess that means we could do Arnold Palmers if you're feeling golfy. We should play! I haven't slapped the dimply balls in a hot second and there's a course-"

"Someone tried to kill him," Andy said it plainly. He pointed to the same spot on the bed. Jack shut the refrigerator and took a seat.

"Like murder-death-kill, tried to kill him? Why isn't this all over the news?"

Andy leaned forward, voice low. "Because we don't want it in the news."

We, Jack soon learned, was a murky term. An agency didn't want it in the news. An agency that specialized in helping people disappear when they needed to. Jack had always wondered whatever happened to Mia Hamm. Or Keri Strug. Or Rick Moranis! According to Andy, The Agency had disappeared all of them when fame became too much. And now that a bomb had apparently been triggered at an estate in Spain, Nadal was looking to the same agency to keep things quiet until they figured out who was responsible.

"- so this is where you come in," Andy waved his hand, knew Jack had momentarily left the conversation. "We need someone not associated with The Agency, not associated with Rafa, someone no one would suspect."

"Me," Jack put the pieces together. "You need me to find out who did it?"

"Bingo. We've got a short list of suspected operatives and we have DNA from the scene of the explosion. We just need to find a match."

Jack nodded. He didn't fancy himself as much of a spy, his face was pretty recognizable and he was louder than he should be most of the time. But he'd just read a lot about contract work and his singles career wasn't exactly bringing in fat checks at the moment, diversifying his options might not be a bad idea.

"Is the pay W2 or 1099?" Jack tried to remember all of the freelance trivia he'd just picked up.

"What the hell? Why do you even -" Andy stopped himself. "Dude, don't worry about tax stuff. I got you covered. Just worry about collecting DNA - hair, skin, et cetera". He stared at Jack to be sure he understood the assignment. "Use this burner phone. Do not discuss this out loud to anyone. Do not mention Rafa to anyone. Not even John. You hear me?"

Jack bounced on the bed. This was exciting. This was new. This was a chance to prove that he had other irons in the fire, other things going on. John and Maddy weren't leaving him behind just because they were getting married. He was busy becoming an international spy. A freelance international spy. He grabbed the flip-phone from Andy. One man's attempted murder was another man's treasure.

-

_Stefanos Tsisipas_

The text was from a number already programmed into the flip-phone. Jack held it under the table and read it over and over while John and Maddy droned on about their newfound love for white pineapple.

"Apparently it's pretty common and - What? What're you looking at?" John stared across the breakfast table. Jack snapped the phone shut.

"Nothing. It's nothing."

"Bullshit. I haven't seen you concentrate on anything that long since you were on painkillers. Is it a dick pick? Is it from Mike? You can tell me, I won't make it weird."

John held his hand out. Maddy screwed her face up in disgust. Jack jammed the phone back into his pocket. People texted him things that weren't dicks sometimes.

"Not telling. Die mad about it. Bye, so happy about your adopted pineapple!"

He spun out of his chair and ran out of the room. Tsitsipas wasn't exactly part of his regular crew, but he had recently become chummy with Serena Williams, who was staying in the same hotel. Jack wasn't much for plans, but this one seemed fool proof. Get to the front of the elevator and wait. And Google what counts as DNA.

According to Wikipedia, DNA was deoxyribonucleic acid, a building-block for genetics and a single molecule made out of two chains. 2 Chainz first came to prominence as part of a duo, but had since had a successful solo career. Jack was listening to Birthday Song a third time when Stefanos made his way through the lobby. He was taller than Jack remembered, a bean pole topped with a wiry mop of hair. He kept his nails trim and Jack was pretty sure it'd be hard to get a swab of his spit, so Stefanos's hair would have to be the goal.

He played it casual, pretended to look around the lobby at the achingly bland wall paper and the shiny metal sconces until Stefanos made it to the elevator. They both waited quietly before Stefanos spoke.

"You, ah, going to hit the button?"

"Huh?" Jack's mind crashed landed back in reality. "Right! Yes. Heading up?"

"This is the ground floor."

Jack looked at him quizzically, his hand hovering over the buttons. "So... up?"

"Chya."

He punched the button five times just to be sure, waited patiently for what felt like an hour. The button had a pleasant firmness to it. That was called action. The button had a pleasant action. Keyboards and typewriters had the same sort of action. Jack's grandfather had an old typewriter back in Omaha that made the best clacking sound when he pushed the keys and-

_Ding_

He scurried into the elevator and pressed himself against the back wall. Stefanos followed behind him, sufficiently creeped out.

He held his breath and shuffled forward slowly. Slowly. Even slower. He practically moved in slow motion as he brought his hand up.

"Which floor?"

Stefanos turned his head around and Jack jumped backward, slamming himself against the cold metal wall.

"Oww!" He rubbed his arm. "Fucking oww. Um, whichever? Where are you going?"

Stefanos lifted an eyebrow and pointed to the button. "Nine. Because I hit the button for nine. Like a regular human."

"Ten," Jack smacked himself on the forehead harder than he meant to. "I'm heading to my room on ten. Sorry, I'm all thrown off from breakfast."

"Uh-huh."

Stefanos politely hit the button for the 10th floor and turned back towards the front of the elevator. He pulled out his cell phone and tried to forget anyone else shared the tiny box with him.

Jack inched forward again. Slower this time, so slow no one would hear him coming up from behind. He waited for the sound of the _ding_ when they hit the 9th floor and darted his hand above his head.

"What the hell?!" Stefanos jumped out of the open doors and onto the 9th floor, gripping the back of his head and whirling around to stare down the psychopath in the elevator.

Jack put both hands behind his back. "Oh man, I'm so sorry. My, umm, watch. My watch got caught in your hair. Are you ok?"

Greek curses were mumbled into the ground as Stefanos rubbed his head. "Are you on drugs? I'm almost two meters and.. How would your watch get caught in hair?"

"Electromagnetism?" Jack shrugged. "I'm really sorry about your hair. Hey, it shined my watch! Do you use a special conditioner? Oooh door closing, sorry."

The doors mercifully shut as a dazed Stefanos watched from the 9th floor. Jack leaned against the wall and finally exhaled. No one would suspect him, and that's why he was good. He'd once made it to the sixth stage of BurgerTime. This international super spy stuff wasn't that hard.

-

"I'm in trouble." Jack clutched the phone tight to his ear, dashed under a table to be sure he wasn't caught. "I need help."

There were multiple clicks on the other line, the sound of a laptop being shut quickly. Andy's voice was clear but urgent.

"Have you been compromised?"

Jack stared at something under the table. A crumb. Cookies. Maybe a chunk of baguette. This place probably had great baguettes.

"What? No. I fucked up the reservations for the engagement party. You're famous, can you do something?"

It almost sounded like teeth grinding against each other over the phone. "Never call me on this line again."

Jack closed the flip-phone and pushed it into the pocket of his suit jacket. He found his iPhone with the other hand and instructed Siri to dial A-Train.

"Hey, I fucked up this engagement dinner. Apparently there are two Cafe Negronis and the one I made reservations for is in, like, Philadelphia, or some shit. Help a brother out."

"One," Andy spoke quickly, "you're a goddam idiot and John is going to kill you. Two," his voice dropped to a whisper, "don't you _ever_ do that again."

Jack waited in silence, ducked under a table at the wrong Cafe Negroni in downtown Manhattan.

"Sooooo?"

"So, Brooklyn and I will see you at the engagement dinner. I'm sure you'll figure something out."

Jack flicked the stray piece of bread away and climbed out from under the table. His fingers nearly walked him to Mike's name in his phone before he stopped himself - nothing good could come from telling Mike he'd fucked this up. He glared at the mean hostess once more, pushed his way out of the restaurant, and dialed the one person who could probably save him.

"What's up, jack-sock?"

"Don't say it like that, Sam." Jack paced outside of the restaurant. "I need a favor. And I need you to not talk about it! Which is great, you're mostly mute anyway."

"Wow, really making me want to help you here, jack-sock."

Jack banged his head against the outside window, flipped off the hostess when she looked up at him again. Sam might not be his best friend, but John was, and he was not about to ruin his engagement party.

Sam Querrey, unfortunately, was not famous enough to get an emergency reservation at Cafe Negroni. But he was helpful at getting Jack's Philadelphia reservation canceled for no charge, so that was something. They put their heads together and acted fast. A place that could serve dinner to 22 people, including super models and professional athletes, with zero notice. Sam Googled his way to an answer and Jack was just desperate enough to agree. It wasn't perfect but they could pretend it was.

After a short happy hour at Cafe Negroni, the entire Isner engagement party wandered two blocks south to pick up wrist bands at Dave & Busters. A miniature amusement park for adults, full of neon-lights and loud video games and too much booze, the entire party would've been a bust if it didn't feed John's addiction to ski-ball. Jack got lucky, and Sam had helped, but John and Maddy seemed none the wiser.

Jack weaseled out of his tie and jammed it into his pocket, everyone's suits and cocktail dresses already a bizarre sight in the overgrown arcade. John clapped him on the back and yelled something before he was running off to the rows of ski-ball machines. Jack squeezed Sam's arm as a thank you and quickly weaved through the crowd to find the bar. They might not have picked the classiest venue for John's engagement party, but at least they picked a venue that sold oversized beers.

He caught the bartender's eye, pointed to an errant tap along the wall. He barely felt the buzz in his pocket and patted both of his legs before finding the super secret phone he wasn't allowed to call Andy on anymore.

_Tsitsipas cleared._

_Kei Nishikori_

Jack texted back a quick _Y_ to confirm and closed the phone. He pecked at his iPhone and waited for his drink. 

__"Two phones? You're fancy."_ _

__Jack's head shot up. The room instantly became 5 degrees warmer when Mike pushed his way up to the bar._ _

__"Oh yeah," Jack put both phones away in a hurry. "Ultra fancy."_ _

__"I could've guessed by your choice of venue," Mike waved his hand out across the bar. His suit fit perfectly, a pale blue jacket clinging to his shoulders and offsetting his sandy hair, pink tie held back from the bar mess with a shiny golden clip. He looked natural in a suit. Jack always felt like he was handsome enough, but handsome in the way a horse might be handsome. He looked fine in suits, but the way a very handsome horse might look fine in a suit. There was an episode of Mr Ed once where he wore a suit and Jack figured that's close to how he probably looked at prom. Not like Mike. Mike looked like that suit was meant to be. Not flashy but not shy. It felt right._ _

__"Hey," Jack realized he hadn't spoken in a few seconds. "You can have gut flora, but can you have gut fauna?"_ _

__Mike laughed. That laugh. "I don't think so? Gut fauna sounds dangerous."_ _

__"Right?" Jack laughed a little too hard. "You look... good."_ _

__"Oh yeah?" Mike dusted off his shoulders. "I don't think I've ever dressed up to play Ms Pac-Man before but here I am. Couples should be required to provide photographic examples of appropriate outfits for things like this, not just say "fancy casual", am I right?"_ _

__The bartender dropped two beers in front of the men. Mike shrugged and accepted it without asking._ _

__"Cheers! To the happy couple."_ _

__"Cheers," Jack lifted the gigantic mug with both hands. He took a sip and surveyed the crowd pulsing around them._ _

__"You know," Mike seemed to have gotten closer, Jack could practically feel his warmth against his side. "I'm pretty sure they've got a High Striker around here somewhere."_ _

__"Shut up!" Jack pushed off the bar and was half way into the crowd before Mike caught up. "Where?"_ _

__Mike's hand was on his back, guiding him through the maze of lights and buzzers. They moved with purpose. Jack saw it. Blue and yellow and garish and perfect, a red mallet chained to the side. The adrenaline pumped, his pulse moving faster._ _

__"Oh my god, they have one!" Jack grabbed ahold of Mike's hand and pulled him through the crowd faster, barely noticing as Andy stepped in front of them._ _

__"Jack." Andy blocked the path to the carnival game. He came to an abrupt halt, Mike holding his hand beside him._ _

__"A-Train, I'm kinda busy. I need to do a thing." He squirmed to look over Andy's shoulder to keep an eye on his machine. He stood on his tiptoes. "That's mine bitch! Get back!"_ _

__He waved wildly with his free hand at a couple who'd approached the High Striker. Someone please escort that devil woman straight to hell. He was going to play, and win, and he definitely wouldn't mind if Mike saw him doing it._ _

__"Jack." Andy repeated, his face uncommonly serious. "We need to talk."_ _

__He wasn't smiling. Or nodding. Hell, he wasn't even blinking. Jack realized what they had to talk about._ _

__Andy turned slightly. "Bob, would you excuse us?"_ _

__"It's Mike, actually. Bob is by the basketball hoops. Shooting left handed. Because we're have different dominant hands. Because we're different people."_ _

__"I got that," Andy didn't bother to look at the basketball hoops. "Can you, ugh, relax your left hand and give me a minute with Jack. Please."_ _

__Jack clenched his eyes shut for moment, both men forgetting they'd clasped hands on their way to the game. Mike lifted his beer._ _

__"Sure. Cheers, Andy." He pushed passed him and made his way towards the High Striker. "Find me later, Jack-Jack!"_ _

__Andy guided them to a corner and started whispering before Jack could yell at him._ _

__"Check your phone."_ _

__"I did!" Jack pulled his phone from his pocket. "I already confirmed. I took care of Tsitsipas, Andy. Give me a little credit." He flipped his phone open and stared at the screen._ _

_Mike Bryan_

__He must've missed the buzz while waiting at the bar._ _

__"Fuck no. Come on, Andy. One at a time. You know I can't multi-task for shit."_ _

__"I don't make the rules, man." Andy motioned for him to put his phone away again. "Judging by the way he’s staring, it shouldn't be too hard for you to get some of his hair."_ _

__"His hair is too short to just steal."_ _

__"Everywhere?"_ _

__A blast of heat struck Jack in the face. "I-I wouldn't know. N-n-not sure what you mean, man." He cracked the knuckles along his right hand, wondered how he'd developed a sudden stutter. He cleared his throat._ _

__"The answer is no, I'm not doing it. I'll take care of Kei but that's it."_ _

__Andy leaned in close, his grip on Jack's forearm turning painful. "Hey, this is not a fucking game. This is not a choose your own adventure. You do what you're assigned or things get... messy."_ _

__Jack forcefully pulled himself free of Andy. "You could've told me that sooner. This morning I was busy eating white pineapple, minding my own business. I read a cool thing about potatoes. Now this whole thing is too much - it's a tornado." Jack suddenly brightened. "Hey, those rhymed!"_ _

__"You did good with Tsitsipas. Just remember, you're saving lives." Andy straightened out his tie. "And potato and tornado definitely do not rhyme."_ _

__"Yes it does. Po-tay-toe. Torn-ate-o."_ _

"No," Andy rolled his eyes. "It's pronounced torn-AID-O. _Aid._ Aid. Like Gatorade." 

__"Tornado. Gatorade. That doesn't rhyme at all, dude."_ _

__"Jack!" Andy snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Focus. Work something out with Kei. Take care of Mike. From the looks of things, that was your plan tonight anyway."_ _

__Andy left Jack to finish his oversized beer. He was happy to oblige._ _

__-_ _

__"What's eating him?" Mike twirled a red mallet in his hands expertly._ _

__Jack swiped Mike's beer from the tabletop. "Beats me. You ready to take a crack at this bad boy."_ _

__"High Striker."_ _

__"I still think you made that up."_ _

__Mike held out the mallet, Andy's disruption had done nothing to diminish his giddy mood. "Here. You go for it. If you actually ring the bell at the top you win that heinous hot dog gun."_ _

__Jack followed Mike's eyes to the prize wall. A genuine Moon Cannon MK1 surrounded by oversized teddy bears. He hadn't been sure he had a soul until that moment, when it called out for that hot dog cannon. He had to have it._ _

__"Mikey, we're winning that gun or dying here trying."_ _

__"That's what I like about you Jack-Jack. You go for what you want."_ _

__"Damn straight!" Jack pulled the mallet from Mike's hands then stopped himself. He handed it back. "Actually, on that note. Hold on one moment please."_ _

__Mike's laugh was the same as always, surprised but amused and maybe even a little enamored. Maybe. Jack pulled his iPhone out of his pocket and held it to his ear, plugged the other with his left hand._ _

"Hi. Or, um. Moshi moshi!" Jack yelled over the klaxons and whistles in the bar. "Kei. Hey it's Jack Sock. No- JACK SOCK. From tour. Yes, hi! I need a favor. Can I just, like, _have_ one of your toenails? Yeah? Yeah." 

__He looked at Mike and fist pumped vigorously. Mike's eyes bulged, entirely confused._ _

__"Ok, you're the best! Thank you. Domo! Sayonara."_ _

__Jack tossed his phone onto the table and leaned closer to Mike to take back the mallet._ _

__"You speak a lot of Japanese." Mike didn't phrase it as a question. "You really are just full of surprises." His eyes looked somehow bigger, rounder. Like a cartoon kitten. The look made Jack's throat feel tighter. "So do you always make such strange demands from strange men?"_ _

__"Jealous?" Jack pulled at the mallet, watched the smile flash across his friend's face._ _

__"Come out with me!" Mike yelled over the din, not sure he had the courage to say it again if Jack couldn't hear him. His game was rusty and the room was loud but his gut told him to go for what he wanted. "Just give me one shot! Next week. I'll call you."_ _

__Jack finally pulled the mallet free of his grasp, his grin stretching so far his cheeks hurt._ _

__"Anyone under 50 who voluntarily calls another person is a murderer. Text me."_ _

__-_ _

_Strong man. Let's go golfing, you beautiful bitch_

Jack read it four times before texting back. There was a golf ball and an upside down smiley face at the end. He was maybe making fun of the way Jack spoke, but he was also asking him out. Officially. Just like he said he would. He even followed up with directions to a driving range in town.

_Oh, so I'm beautiful now, am I?_

__Jack watched in delight as the "typing" dots appeared and disappeared repeatedly. Poor Mike had no idea what he was getting into, he would not win this game. Nor would he win at golf._ _

_Always have been_

__Jack rested his phone on the table and melted out of his chair. It wasn't clever or wild. It was horribly corny and entirely Mike. Jack rolled around on the ground and giggled. He was not used to this game and was definitely not prepared for the way Mike was playing it._ _

__-_ _

__The warm weather hung around New York like incense, lingering in the air day after day. The driving range was bathed in sunlight when Jack arrived. Mike was already there with two buckets of golf balls, his polo a pale yellow and cheeks a bright pink. He twirled a club in his hand and hoped he looked casual._ _

__"Jack-Jack! You look," Mike stopped himself, leaned on his golf club like it was a cane. "Hi."_ _

__"I look high? Strong start, Mikey."_ _

__"No! You know what I mean. I just don't normally see you, you know, dressed. Er! Dressed casually... I like your shirt."_ _

Jack smiled and inspected his golf shirt, nearly identical to the jerseys he wore in all of their doubles matches. _Mike is nervous._

__"You look nice, too." Jack lifted his hand for a high-five, then thought better of it. Mike adjusted, lowered his arm for a handshake instead. They both jerked their bodies awkwardly, trying to figure out the proper greeting. Mike finally leaned forward in a half-hearted chest bump._ _

__Jack stared at the ground for a moment while Mike tried to laugh it off._ _

__"Balls!" Jack spotted the buckets. "You already got balls."_ _

__"And drinks!" He looked relieved to have something to focus on as he held up a tray of ice-filled cocktails. "Vodka soda?"_ _

__"Yes, please! But can you put, like, eight limes in that? I'm 24 hours away from diagnosable scurvy."_ _

__That laugh escaped Mike again, harder than usual. Jack felt the pride blooming in his chest as he plucked his drink off the tray. He'd recently read all about passengers on long boat rides getting scurvy from a lack of Vitamin C and then spent an hour diagnosing himself on WebMD when he worried he hadn't eaten an orange in three weeks. According to the internet he was safe, but he squeezed a few extra limes into his drink just to be sure._ _

__They clinked their glasses. Mike took a long pull from his drink while Jack smiled at him, then accidentally poked himself in the face with his straw before grabbing it with two fingers. Straws were easier when he wasn't staring at his doubles partner._ _

__Jack pulled a driver out of his bag. "Let's play!"_ _

__He squared up his feet. Concentrated on the ball. Sucked in a deep breath. And crushed the ball so hard it nearly screamed._ _

__"Holy shit!" Mike held a hand over his brow and watched the ball disappear into the sun before making landfall somewhere near New Jersey. "You know how to golf."_ _

__Jack let out a soft grunt as he drove another ball deep into the range. "I also make a decent risotto."_ _

__"Full of surprises." Mike concentrated on his own swing and cracked the ball. They weren't going to turn this into a competition, but he wasn't about to be out done._ _

__"So if you had to, would you rather fight a bear or a shark?"_ _

The _whiff_ was audible, Mike's club slashing through the air with a whoosh. He doubled over, a hand on his knee while he laughed. 

__"Where do you come up with this stuff?"_ _

__Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "My brain is restless. Look at a ball, it's got dimples. People have dimples. What doesn't have dimples, a bear. Bears seem pretty scary. Is anything scarier to fight than a bear? A shark. Maybe."_ _

__"Right," Mike gathered himself. "I'm going to say shark, hands down. Way scarier." He set another ball on the tee. "Alright, now hold on to your socks because this is going to knock them right off."_ _

__He took a swing and watched his ball disappear into the range. Even his golf form was perfect._ _

__Jack whistled. "Not bad. I'm still going to say bear. You can't escape a bear. Shark - you just get out of the water. It's not winning a fight on land." He wiggled as he lined up his shot. "Now, you might want to plug your ears because this shot is going to blow your fucking mind."_ _

__"Uh huh. Ears plugged." Mike teed off on another ball. They fell into a rhythm, gentle banter and the ping of steel against plastic, Jack's heavy exhales with each swing and Mike's breathy laugh. It was natural. It was normal. Two old friends hanging out on a Saturday afternoon._ _

It was maybe too normal. Too _friendly_. Maybe they'd been doing the friend thing for too long to try and change lanes. But still, Jack felt the butterflies in his stomach whenever Mike laughed at his jokes, felt a small twinge of pride when Mike let out an impressed whistle at Jack's swings. He slowly started catching the signs from Mike, too. The way he watched from the corner of his eye when Jack leaned over to place another ball on the tee. The quick flash of embarrassment on his face when he readjusted his khakis every time Jack let out a low grunt. They were normal. They were natural. They were suddenly both working up a sweat. 

__"So, uh," Jack palmed two balls, fidgeted nervously. "What if I told you I'm a spy? Not quite, like, Tom Cruise-spy. But more Archer-type-spy."_ _

__"Huh," Mike concentrated on his swing and watched the ball bounce in the distance before turning his full attention to Jack. "That'd be pretty cool. I mean, spies are sexy, right? What if I told you that Bob isn't really my twin, he's just some guy I found on the street?"_ _

__The laugh that burst out of his chest was clipped, surprised, popping like a little machine gun. "That would be ridiculous. I'm serious here."_ _

__"Me, too," Mike's smile was slow and easy. He pointed at Jack with his golf club, took a step forward. "Dead serious. I don't even know Bob's real name. He was a drifter before I found him."_ _

__"Is that so?" Warm hands were on his hips before he knew it. Jack was suddenly aware of his own mouth. The bite of mint and hint of sweat swirling around Mike. The spark behind his eyes._ _

__"It's cool, though." Mike's whisper caught Jack's ear, ran down his neck and along his spine. "I won't tell on you if you don't tell on me. Super Spy."_ _

__Jack couldn't think of anything to say back. He simply nodded, lips brushing against Mike's. He could try to come up with a line, a joke about limes or bears or sharks. Or he could just lean forward and give in to the butterflies._ _

__-_ _

__It was a vote of no confidence. No one called it that, but they both knew that's what it was._ _

__Co-best man. Best men. Jack would still get to give speeches and toasts. Sam would get to plan the parties and handle the guests. _All the things Jack couldn't be trusted to do,_ no one needed to say._ _

__He didn't fight it, too exhausted from another singles defeat to argue with John about how Sam would choose some place lame like Orlando for the bachelor party, or how he'd somehow get Electric Slide on the wedding playlist. Like it or not, Sam and Jack were now in this together._ _

__And even though Mike thought he was joking, Jack really did have spy-things to keep him busy. Kei dropped by his hotel room with a bag of toenail clippings a few days later without asking any follow up questions. Jack was equally impressed and disgusted, but it made his job easy. He swiped the glass tumbler Mike had drank out of at the driving range and dropped it into a plastic bag. Andy had created a drop off point in the locker room of the latest tournament, an unassuming locker with a combination set to Jack's birthday where they could make easy drops._ _

__Jack opened it after his first-round defeat, grabbed the note and tiny package Andy had left. He'd learned enough not to try and read it there in the locker room, lest Tennys Sandgren or some other idiot sneak up and start asking him questions he wasn't prepared to answer. He pocketed the note, ignored another "Planning Committee" text from Sam, and made it back to his hotel._ _

_Good work. Nishikori cleared. Mike inconclusive._  
_Place bug in his room. I know you have access. Remember, you're working for the greater good._

__Jack crumbled up the note. Studied the tiny package before slipping it into a backpack and chucking it against the wall. He looked into the box and saw one more item. He pulled out the soft fabric and inspected it. A knee brace, the initials BMS drawn in silver Sharpie._ _

__BMS. _Bethanie Mattek-Sands._ Jack's friend who had suffered a freak accident a few years ago that almost cost her career._ _

__Jack held up the brace and stared. He slowly pieced it together. It wasn't an accident. Andy said that failure meant things get messy. He hadn't sent Jack a knee brace. He'd sent a bug for Mike's hotel room and a very real threat._ _

__-_ _

__"What is with you?" John paused the game. Jack was never the best at Fortnite but he was so distracted that this was getting too easy._ _

__"I don't know, man." Jack threw himself back onto the bed. "I'm just- I got myself a side gig and I hate it."_ _

__"Did you agree to do a Reddit AMA? Never do anything on Reddit. Especially if Sandgren is involved."_ _

__"What? No." Jack rubbed his temples. "I have a headache and I can't stop just, like, thinking. Is it from dehydration? Caffeine withdrawal, lack of sleep, lack of nutrition? I have some reading glasses I never wear, is it from that? Or is it just a pretty standard brain tumor?"_ _

__"Jesus, dude, take a breath."_ _

__He sat up straight and made his way to the door. "I gotta go. I gotta go talk to someone about something." He unlocked the dead-bolt and turned back to John, pointed at his backpack on the floor. "Hey, if anything happens while I'm gone... I'm just really happy for you and Maddy."_ _

__"Yeah, ok," John gave him a sarcastic thumbs up, not in the mood to humor Jack's melodramatic moments. "Go drink a Gatorade or something. I'll call you later. And stay away from Reddit!"_ _

__-_ _

__He was half a block down the street when the bomb went off. The sound of iron rending and concrete tearing away from its foundations reverberated, the entire building moaned and shrieked, then echoed off the other buildings that cowered along the street. Jack's hands shook. He looked up and saw the eastern facing wall of the hotel flapping in the wind. Car horns blared. Emergency sirens already grew closer._ _

__Jack squinted and could actually see John's room, opened up like a bedroom in a dollhouse. His fingers were clammy as he mashed at his phone._ _

__"Are you ok?!"_ _

__"WHAT THE FUCK?!" John screamed, pipes popped in the background. "I didn't even touch your backpack and-"_ _

__"And it exploded. Fuck!" Jack resisted the urge to spike his phone. He stopped himself, felt for the flip-phone in his pocket. Everything clicked._ _

___Mike!_ He had to get him before Andy did._ _

__"John, I'm sorry - I gotta go. Wait for the ambulance!"_ _

__-_ _

__Someone had tried to kill Rafa. They'd managed to keep the media quiet, but the explosion in Spain was real. Jack watched the flames die down in John's hotel room and realized the blasts had to have been the same. Andy had recruited him afterwards. They needed someone no one would suspect. Someone not affiliated with any agency or spy ring. Someone too easily distracted to realize that Andy and his network hadn't prevented Rafa's death. They'd tried to cause it._ _

__Put who stopped it? Jack ran by Mike's room but found it empty. Only got barraged with questions about "his intentions" when he tried to ask Bob for help. He checked his own room, found nothing. His legs were numb as they pumped, ran through the streets. Whoever had stopped it was out of Andy's grasp, so they needed Jack to systematically rule out candidates. First Tsitsipas, then Kei. When Mike came back inconclusive..._ _

__He made it to the stadium, their upcoming exhibition match only days away. Of course Andy would lure him there. He'd make it look like an accident. From somewhere high. The top of bleachers up in the nosebleeds section._ _

__A flash of his VIP pass and he was up the stairs in seconds, chest burning. Jack kicked open the double doors into the stands. The sound of blood pumping in his ears._ _

__"Who's got a receding hair line and a hell of a lot of explaining to do?!"_ _

__Andy snapped at the sound of Jack's voice. He was at the top of the bleachers, one hand casually gripping the railing, the other waving Mike to come join him. Mike was still four rows lower, making his way up. Jack saw Andy's plan immediately; how easy it would be to send Mike over the railing and down two stories._ _

__"Jack-Jack? What a small world!" Mike stopped short._ _

__"Jack!" Andy shouted over him. "Glad you're here. Let's all have a chat. Mike, come on up."_ _

__"Do NOT come on up!" Jack made a dash for the first row of bleachers. "He's a... he's a shark-bear!"_ _

__Mike turned and looked at him, something strange played out across his face, slowly melting into clarity. He made a leap two rows down, away from Andy, and ducked under a bleacher just as Jack fired his first shot._ _

_POF!_

__The hot dog burst out of the cannon and over Andy's head._ _

__"Hey-hey-hey!" Andy held out both hands. "Don't try to be Doc Holliday here, Sock." He inched slightly to his right. "What even is that?"_ _

__Jack steadied the hot dog cannon with both hands. Mike pressed himself to the wooden bench, just able to see Andy's feet slowly shuffle toward a red supply bag tucked out of Jack's view._ _

__"This," Jack gripped it tighter, "is a Moon Cannon MK1. I wanted it in blue but the Dave & Busters lady was being a real bitch about checking in back for more."_ _

__Andy nodded, creeping even closer to his hidden supply bag._ _

__"Right. Look, Jack, I'm sure you've got a lot of questions. Who runs the agency? Why did I pick you? Because I can assure you, this isn't as-"_ _

__"Too long, got bored."_ _

_Pof-pOf-POF!_

__The first hot dog tagged him in the shoulder. Andy leaned forward and grabbed at his chest. The second hit square against his jaw, pushing him back against the railing. The third smashed against his forehead. His arms flailed for a moment, blindly groping for the railing. His right hand missed and that was it, his entire body slipping over the railing and plummeting to the ground._ _

__Jack ran up the bleachers. Mike sprang up from his hiding spot and sprinted to the railing to join him._ _

__Mike stared at Andy's body below them. "Holy shit! Are you ok? Should we go check on him? Is he dead?"_ _

_Pof-Pof!_

Two more hot dogs bounced off Andy's chest. He didn't move. 

__"Double tap," Jack sang the words. "He's dead. But I _think_ that's a good thing. Hey, did you know earthworms-"_ _

__Mike's lips crashed into him, his hands pulling Jack by the shoulders. Jack dropped his cannon and kissed him back._ _

__-_ _

__Jack leaned forward on the over-stuffed couch, moving his face closer to the phone he'd propped up on the coffee table. John and Frances yelled about something indistinct from the kitchen, or maybe the library. The entire mansion was too big to tell which room was really which. Jack figured out how to get from his bedroom to the bathroom on the second floor and figured that was good enough. Every time he went exploring around the gothic house he got distracted by leafy wall paper or marble busts of dead French ladies. He had a theory that Joan of Arc was probably a schizo. He also had a theory that beignets would actually lose a fight to elephant ears, if both foods were turned into people._ _

__"Think about it," he leaned closer to the phone, "elephant ears would totally have reach. Wing-span matters!"_ _

Mike's laugh was unmistakable, even over speakerphone. _"Yeah but I bet they'd be gangly. If I were a betting man, I'd put my money on the scone."_

"That dumpy fuck?! No way." 

The phone vibrated with Mike's laugh every time. Jack hated to admit it, but he did actually miss his boyfriend over the last few days. Not that he'd ever say it out loud, not after years of mocking John every time he sulked without Maddy. But John already knew it when he revised his bachelor party rules from "No Girlfriends" to "No Romantic Peoples". The jerk.

"Ask him if he gets his hair cut the same time every month," Christina poked her head in from the hallway. "I bet he does. He's a Taurus, they're mad consistent."

_"Hey!"_ Mike's voice buzzed from the speaker. _“I hear girls. What happened to the rule?"_

__Jack scratched his head. "That's not a girl it's just McHale."_ _

_"This sucks. You're all running around New Orleans and I'm back here just getting Zodiac related haircuts."_

__"Babe, don't take it personally. It's not about you, it's about the moon."_ _

__Jack gulped down his iced coffee and did his best to recount the previous night. John ate so many buckets of crawfish that the restaurant hung a Polaroid of him on the wall. Frances got abducted by a pedicab driver in a sparkly bra top. They didn't find him for another 6 hours. A drunk girl nearly decapitated Sam when she tried to pull his bolo tie off his neck._ _

__"Serves him right. The fact that he wore a bolo tie and blue jeans for a bachelor party just really boils my piss."_ _

_"You complained when he was boring. Now you're complaining when he's interesting?"_

__Fair enough. Sleepy-Sam might not have talked as much as Jack but he also tended to keep himself out of trouble. After the incident with Andy - after the media speculation, the quietly orchestrated cover up, the offers from competing agencies - Jack finally began to see the value of flying under the radar. Maybe Sam was on to something._ _

__"Hey, you don't think Sam is like... in the flip-phone business. Do you?"_ _

_"Not a chance. Oh, Bob's here. Tell everyone I said hi! Call me later."_

__"Text," Jack corrected him. "I will text you. I don't need everyone listening in on my business all weekend."_ _

_"Right, right, right."_ Mike audibly fumbled with this phone. Keys jangled in his hands. _"I miss you, too."_


End file.
